The ants are random scouts seeking what ants seek  
when they come into my kitchen from the garden, 
their aphid harvest stowed in mummy bundles 
on the underside of cabbage leaves, drawn now 
to the hot honey in the pantry, the slow dark molasses, 
dipping sauces for their feast, all the food is free for 
the taking but it might cost you your life to take it, 
I scrub them from my counters in the morning,  
in the afternoon they’re back, the loss of a few 
hundred scouts such a small price to pay, for the 
feast will be glorious, and the feast is all that matters.